Читать книгу The Watcher - BEVERLY BARTON, Beverly Barton - Страница 11

All things considered, Nic had slept amazingly well. Griff had shown her to a guestroom. Large, elegant, and quite feminine. She’d wondered just how many other ladies had used this room over the years.

When Sanders had brought her suitcase, he’d said, “If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you, I’ll be fine.”

“Do you prefer to set your alarm clock for in the morning or would you like for me to wake you?” he’d asked.

“Uh, I’ll set the alarm, but I forgot to ask Mr. Powell what time I should be ready.”

“Breakfast will be served in the kitchen at seven in the morning,” Sanders had told her.

Nic checked her wristwatch. It was now six forty-three AM. Last evening, she had set the alarm on the beside table for six. The clothes she had on today were not part of the daily “uniform” she wore for work. She was stuck with the clothes she had packed for a semisecluded vacation in the mountains. Her choice in apparel had been shorts, jeans, or the one skirt she had brought with her. She chose the jeans and topped them with a white short-sleeved pullover.

Squaring her shoulders and tilting her chin, she resisted the urge to glance at herself in the cheval mirror she passed on her way to the door. She knew she was clean and presentable. That was enough.

Once downstairs, she simply followed her nose. The aroma of coffee and cinnamon led her straight to the large, modern kitchen. After entering, she paused when she saw Sanders at the stove and Barbara Jean Hughes, in her wheelchair, buzzing around setting the table. Barbara Jean’s younger sister had been one of the BQ Killers’ victims, and Barbara Jean had been one of the few people who had gotten a glimpse of the killer as he left the scene. She should have been under FBI protection while they’d hunted down the Beauty Queen Killer, but instead, she had succumbed to Griff’s persuasive charm and accepted his offer of protection. Apparently, even after Cary Maygarden had been killed and she was no longer thought to be in danger, Barbara Jean had chosen to stay on and was now in Griffin’s employ.

The moment Barbara Jean saw Nic, she paused and smiled. “Good morning, Special Agent Baxter. It’s so nice to see you again, but I wish it were under more pleasant circumstances.”

“Yes, me, too. And please, call me Nic.”

“You’re a bit early. Breakfast isn’t quite ready.” Barbara Jean eyed the table, neatly set with placemats, silverware, and china. “Griffin and Maleah should be down shortly.” She glanced sweetly at Sanders. “Damar has prepared his special breakfast casserole and homemade cinnamon and raisin scones.”

“It smells delicious.” Nic tried her best to curb her curiosity about Maleah. Was she one of Griff’s women? Probably.

“Would you care for coffee?” Sanders asked.

“Yes, I’d love coffee, but I can get it myself.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

By the time she’d poured the black brew into a china cup and was about to take the first sip, a woman entered the kitchen. Pretty and blonde and stacked.

Nic could certainly see why any man would be attracted to her.

“Morning all,” the woman said as she visually scanned the room. Her gaze settled on Nic. “Hi. You must be the infamous Nic Baxter.” She smiled and held out her hand as she approached. “I’m Maleah Perdue, the Powell agent assigned to Griffin’s Rest this week.”

Nic returned her smile, feeling oddly relieved that she wasn’t being subjected to breakfast with Griff’s latest girlfriend. “So, I’m infamous around here, am I?”

“Most definitely,” Maleah said. “During the BQK case, your name was synonymous with The Devil.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, not with Griffin Powell. Believe me, his name is synonymous with arrogant SOB in my office every day.”

Nic and Maleah were laughing when Griff entered the kitchen. He glanced from one woman to the other, nodding at each in turn. “Something tells me that all this early-morning good humor is at my expense.”

“Could be,” Maleah admitted.

Sanders brought Griff a cup of coffee immediately and said, “Breakfast will be served momentarily.”

Griff motioned to the table. “Ladies.”

He waited until each of them had taken a seat and Barbara Jean had positioned her wheelchair in front of a place setting before he sat down at the table.

He turned to Maleah, on his left. “Have you received any information this morning?”

Sanders placed a canned cola and a straw in front of Maleah, who popped the lid and inserted the straw before replying. “Actually, some info came in overnight. I haven’t printed it out yet, but I can give you a rundown from memory.”

“What sort of information?” Nic asked. “About the two victims?”

Maleah nodded. “With only their names and the basic info on both women, I was able to get quite a bit of personal information. The Web has made everyone’s personal life an open book.”

“Other than similarities in the way they were murdered, did the two women have anything else in common?” Griff asked.

“Hmm … I suppose the answer is yes and no. There’s nothing in their backgrounds to connect them. They were born in different states, lived in different states, and were, we assume, abducted in different states. Different religions—one Catholic, one Methodist. Kendall Moore was a pure WASP—white, from an upper-middle-class family. Gala Ramirez’s parents migrated from Mexico before she was born and were dirt poor.”

Sanders placed the casserole dish on the table so unobtrusively that Nic and the others barely noticed.

Griff glanced on the other side of Maleah where Barbara Jean sat. “Are you sure you want to sit in on this discussion?”

She nodded. “Yes, I’m sure. If Cary Maygarden had a partner, I want to know everything about the man. After all, we can’t be a hundred percent sure which one of them killed my sister, can we?”

“Cary Maygarden fit your description of the man you saw,” Griff reminded her.

“I know. It’s just … just …” Her voice quivered and then trailed off into silence.

Sanders set the tray of scones on the table, walked over to stand behind Barbara Jean, and curled his fingers gently over her shoulder. Nic spied his actions in her peripheral vision, but neither she nor anyone else looked directly in Sanders’s direction.

“Okay, so you’ve told us how Gala Ramirez and Kendall Moore were different,” Griff said. “Tell us what they had in common.”

All eyes turned to Maleah. “Well, to start with, they were both brunettes. Both of them were born and raised in Southern states, assuming we, as many people do, consider Texas a Southern state.”

“Is that it?” Nic asked.

“There is one other thing—both women were athletes. Gala Ramirez was a tennis pro and at only twenty, her career was just beginning. She had a good chance of becoming a national champion,” Maleah said. “And Kendall Moore, who was twenty-nine, held an Olympic silver medal as a longdistance runner.”

Silence.

No one spoke. A ticking clock and the distinct sound of breathing prevented the room from being absolutely quiet.

“Athletes, huh?” Griff reached out and spooned a large helping of the casserole onto his plate. “This could mean that he switched from beauty queens to athletes for his victims in the new game.”

“Possibly,” Nic said.

“Was either woman married? Have children?” Griff asked.

“Both were single,” Maleah said. “No children.”

Nic stated the list of similarities. “Brunette, unmarried, no children, Southern, and more specifically an athlete. Do y’all know how many women that description fits?”

“Thousands.” Maleah flipped back the cloth covering the scones and retrieved the one on top. The scent of cinnamon and sugar permeated the air. “Maybe tens or hundreds of thousands of women, depending on your definition of an athlete. That could be anyone from an Olympic gold medal winner to a woman who plays softball for her church team.”

As Nic and Barbara Jean served themselves and Sanders took a seat at the opposite end of the table from Griff, the discussion turned from the two murdered women to the trip to Ballinger, Arkansas. And by the end of the meal, Nic had gained a new insight into Griffin Powell. As much as she disliked him and as badly as she hated to admit it, everyone else at the table seemed to like and respect Griff. He treated the others with an easy warmth and cordiality usually reserved for friends, which led her to believe that he considered them more than employees and that they felt the same.

Twenty minutes later, Griff slid back his chair, dropped his linen napkin on the table, and stood. “If you’re packed and ready, we can leave by eight,” he told Nic.

“I’m ready to go whenever you are.”

“Good.” He eyed the cup she held. “Finish your coffee. I have a couple of phone calls to make. I’ll meet you in the foyer in ten minutes.” Not waiting for a reply, he walked out of the room.

Nic drank the remainder of her coffee hurriedly, then excused herself and went upstairs to brush her teeth, finish packing, and make one phone call of her own.

Josh Friedman answered his cell phone on the third ring. “Hey, good looking, what are you doing up so early while you’re on vacation?”

Josh had been a member of the BQK task force she’d been on for several years. They were presently in the same squad working out of D.C. and under SAC Douglas Trotter’s command, who took orders from the ADIC, the Assistant Director in Charge.

“Officially, I’m still on vacation,” Nic said. “For now, I don’t want Doug to know anything about what I’m doing unofficially.”

Josh let out a long, low whistle. “I don’t like the sound of that. What are you up to and is it going to get you into trouble?”

“Yes, it could get me in trouble.” She hesitated telling Josh everything. God, was he going to get a laugh at her expense. If anyone on earth knew how much she detested Griffin Powell, it was Josh. He’d had to listen to her curse the man’s very existence on a fairly regular basis while they were on the BQK task force.

“I’m listening,” Josh told her.

“If you laugh, so help me—”

“Now, why would I laugh at you? Unless you’ve gone off and married Griff Powell—my God, Nic, you haven’t—!”

“Of course not!” Nic sucked in a deep, courage-building breath. “But I am with Griff.”

“You’re shitting me, right?”

“Swear to me that you’ll keep this under wraps until I find out more.”

“More about what?”

“You know my theory about there being two BQ killers? That supposedly unprovable theory that I’ve shared only with you and Doug, the theory that Griffin Powell and I both believe to be true?” She added hastily, “And it’s the only thing that man and I share. Get that straight here and now.”

“Good God, don’t tell me that you and Powell are off on some wild-goose chase to prove your theory.”

“He called us,” Nic said.

“Who called you? And is that the royal us or are you referring to you and Powell?”

“The second BQ Killer called me on my cell phone yesterday and he called Griff, too. He phoned us only minutes apart. He all but admitted to both of us that he’d been the second BQ Killer. He told us he has begun a new game. And he gave us both a clue.”

“Crap! Are you kidding me?”

“We know he’s already killed two women and both women were athletes, but we need to find a way to prove that the two crimes are connected. I’m flying to Ballinger, Arkansas, with Griff this morning. That’s where one of the victims was found.” Nic hurriedly filled Josh in on what information she had, then ended the conversation by saying, “If I call you for unofficial help—?”

“Look, I think you should tell Doug right away and bring him up to speed on this.”

“No. Not until I’m certain that I can prove to him this guy has started a new killing game and the bureau needs to be involved.”

“Doug is not going to like your teaming up with Griffin Powell,” Josh reminded her.

“I don’t like teaming up with him, but right now I’m not calling the shots and neither is Griff.”

“Then who is?”

“Our killer is.”

Amber Kirby had the oddest feeling that someone was watching her, and the sensation gave her the creeps. But she didn’t slow down, didn’t alter her pace one iota. After all, it wasn’t as if she were out here on this walking/jogging trail alone. She had overslept and was running late this morning; otherwise she’d be finished with her three-mile run and be showered and dressed for the day. But Sundays were her day of rest, the only day her hectic schedule allowed her time off, and that would change during basketball season. She didn’t really mind all the hard work—both on the court and off—because her basketball scholarship to University of Tennessee was the only way she could afford college. That or join the army. And since she’d been the star of her high school team, with a natural athletic ability, she preferred playing basketball to running the risk of getting killed or having her limbs blown off in Iraq.

The farther along the trail she ran, the more relaxed she became, and the more certain she was that she had imagined someone peering at her through the bushes. No one in their right mind would try to attack someone on such a wide-open and often-congested trail. She’d seldom run this course without seeing at least half a dozen people. And no one was likely to be staring at her because they were fascinated by her beauty. At six one, big-boned, and with a flat chest, she wasn’t exactly the type who attracted attention from the opposite sex. How often had she wished she’d inherited her body build from her mother instead of her father and his two big, gangling sisters.

Despite being taller than the average man, Aunt Virginia and Aunt Carole had found husbands. And neither aunt was a great beauty. So, there was hope for her. Sooner or later, some six foot six guy would come along and decide he liked his women tall, raw-boned, and plain. But until then, she’d just keep on doing what she did best—playing basketball. And loving every minute of it.

Pudge sat on the front porch in his favorite chair, an old wicker rocker that had belonged to Grandmother Suzette. He had no memory of her because she had died when he was only two. She had drowned in one of the numerous ponds on the thousand-acre estate, her death ruled an accident. But he had once overheard his mother and aunt talking about Suzette, about her being as crazy as a Betsy Bug and how the nutty old woman had killed herself.

Balancing the saucer in his palm, he lifted the cup to his lips and sipped the strong espresso as his gaze traveled over the lush, moist land spread out before him, land that had been in his family for nearly two hundred years. If all was as it should be in the world, he would be the king of a vast empire, with underlings kissing his feet and begging for his favors. But instead, he ruled over land that hadn’t produced a crop in his lifetime and a decaying antebellum mansion that reeked of mildew and pulsated with the ghosts of countless ancestors whose spirits haunted the rooms. He’d never seen a ghost, mind you, but he had felt their presence. Even as a child, he’d known evil spirits resided here at Belle Fleur.

But in the light of day, the sunlight invading every nook and cranny, banishing the shadows, Pudge preferred to dwell on more pleasant thoughts. He would be traveling to Tennessee soon, tomorrow at the latest, to pick up his next quarry. Once he brought her home with him, the fun would begin. She would spend her first night in the basement, just as the others had done. Then the next morning, before Allegra arrived to prepare his breakfast, he would take his prey and release her into the wild.

Just the thought of beginning the game again, of spending three weeks stalking Amber Kirby, then capturing and killing her, excited him. A sensation of pure glee tingled through his whole body.

Ballinger, Arkansas, located south of Little Rock, appeared no different from most small towns comprised of less than ten thousand people. Griff drove up Main Street, which apparently had undergone a recent restoration, in search of the B&B Sanders had booked for Nic and him. He figured they would learn what they could about Kendall Moore today and tomorrow, then head for Stillwater, Texas, late in the day.

“Is that it?” Nic asked, pointing to what appeared to be an old, remodeled hotel right in the middle of town.

“Hmm … Yeah, I believe it is. The Ballinger Hotel.” Griff chuckled. “I suppose, for a little town like this, it was something in its heyday, which was probably 1925.” The two-story building possessed a dark red brick façade, clean lines, and Craftsman-era styling.

“There’s a sign with an arrow,” Nic told him. “PARKING IN THE REAR.”

Griff turned right at the sign and eased their rental Ford Taurus between the two structures until he reached an alleyway that led to the parking lot behind the B&B and a lawyer’s office.

“We’ll check in and leave our luggage, then take a walk over to the police station we saw on our way into town.”

When they got out, Griff removed their suitcases from the trunk, intending to carry them both. But Nic didn’t budge. She held out her hand.

“I’ll take it,” she told him.

“Why?” he asked.

“Why what?”

“Why not let me carry your bag for you?”

“Because you have your own to carry and I’m perfectly capable of carrying my suitcase.”

“Hmm …” What was she trying to prove? That she didn’t want or need a man’s help? Sometime in her past, some guy had done a real number on Nicole Baxter and Griff would lay odds that it hadn’t been her husband.

She twitched her fingers at him. “My suitcase, please.”

“Sure thing.” He handed the case to her.

Side by side, they walked through the alley, around to the sidewalk on Main Street, and up to the hotel’s front entrance. Griff held the door open for her. Let her chew him out for being a gentleman. But his mama had taught him good manners and he wasn’t about to let a lady open her own door.

Surprisingly, Nic said nothing. But she did give him a disapproving sidelong glance. The foyer of the old hotel was small but clean and rather appealing with brown marble floors and oak paneling. A plump, silver-haired woman who was running a feather duster over the framed photographs of the town, circa early twentieth century, that hung on the wall, paused in her chore when she realized she was no longer alone.

“May I help you?”

“I’m Griffin Powell and this is Ms. Baxter,” Griff said. “We booked rooms for tonight.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Check-in isn’t until two, but since y’all are our only guests, it won’t be a problem.” She glanced from Griff to Nic. “I’m Cleo Willoughby. I’m the owner.”

“Now, tell me, dear, do you want rooms with a connecting door or not?”

“Not,” Nic said lightning fast.

Cleo’s brows rose with a hint of speculation and curiosity.

“Ms. Baxter and I are business associates,” Griff said.

“Indeed. And what kind of business are you in, Mr. Powell?”

“I’m a private detective,” he told her, without hesitation. In a town this size, news would travel fast, so there was no point in trying to keep his identity secret.

Cleo smiled broadly. “How very interesting. Can you tell me what brings you to Ballinger?”

“We’re hoping to speak with the police chief about a recent murder,” Griff said.

“Is that right? And is Benny expecting y’all?”

“Benny?” Nic asked.

“Yes, Benny’s the police chief. He’s my nephew. If you’d like, I’ll give him a call and tell him you folks want to talk to him about a murder. I assume it’s Kendall Moore’s murder, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am, it is,” Griff replied. So the police chief was her nephew? Ah, the interwoven relationships of small-town families.

“Well, you two come along and get signed in and I’ll show you upstairs.” Cleo motioned for them to follow her into the room on the left, apparently her office. “While you’re settling in, I’ll call Benny. It’s nearly eleven, so he’ll probably be heading over to Mot’s for Sunday dinner as soon as he leaves church.” She lifted her head from where she’d been fiddling with the credit card machine and looked right at Nic. “I went to nine o’clock services this morning. Don’t want y’all thinking that I’m not a good Christian woman.”

“The thought wouldn’t have entered our minds, Ms. Willoughby,” Griff said.

“Call me Cleo. Everybody does.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Nic and Griff said simultaneously.

“If you’d wanted connecting rooms, I could have given you the Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers rooms, but the Jean Harlow room is bigger and has a view of Main Street. And the Cary Grant room is very nice, too.” She patted Griff on the arm. “The last gentleman who stayed in it said he couldn’t remember when he’d slept better.”

“That’s good to know.” Griff wished Cleo would hurry things along, but he suspected there was no point in trying to rush her.

She ran Griff’s credit card, handed him the slip to sign, and swapped him his card for the bill.

“Do you get many visitors?” Nic asked.

“Not many, but enough to keep the doors open. The gentleman I mentioned who last stayed in the Cary Grant room spent only one night. Said he was just passing through. I wonder if those boys finding Kendall Moore’s body in the park had anything to do with him leaving so fast.”

“When did this man arrive and when did he leave?” Griff asked, an odd notion hitting him at the mention of the man being here so recently.

“He came in on Friday evening, rather late, and paid in cash.” Cleo said. “And he left Saturday morning, right after we heard about them finding that poor gal strung up by her heels and her head scalped. Have you ever heard of such a gruesome thing?”

Nic and Griff exchanged glances and in that moment, he knew that she was thinking the same thing he was: the recent occupant of the Cary Grant room might well have been Kendall Moore’s murderer.